


Million Dollar Mountie

by vienna_waits



Category: due South
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Gen Fic, Medium Length, Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-27
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:18:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienna_waits/pseuds/vienna_waits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winning a million dollars can ruin your whole day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Million Dollar Mountie

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to my betas, nos4a2no9 and spuffyduds. You two rock! This fic is set in late season 1 between "Invitation to Romance" and "Heaven and Earth." My other longer fics have tended to use Fraser and Kowalski, but the fact is that I ADORE Ray Vecchio and wanted to give him a turn too.

Ray poked Fraser with a friendly elbow as he hoisted the hot dog, drenched in relish and mustard, to his mouth. "Great game, huh? And this is way better than watchin' it on TV."

Fraser smiled. "Yes, Ray." His eyes flicked to the Jumbotron, where the display read _BULLS 48 PISTONS 38_. "These are excellent seats, I must admit." The noise level took some getting used to, and he almost wished he'd brought some earplugs, but he had enjoyed reading the coaches' lips during the first half as they issued fervent instructions to the players. Currently, he and Ray were shouting to be heard over the music blaring to accompany a dance routine the cheerleaders were performing on center court. "It's too bad the concession stand doesn't sell poutine, though." He glanced at Ray's hot dog. "You do realize that hot dogs are a veritable sea of sodium, fat, and nitrites."

Ray swallowed, licked a yellow blob of mustard from one corner of his mouth. "Hot dogs are as American as baseball and apple pie. Not to mention delicious." His eyes widened appreciatively at the cheerleaders finishing up their show on center court. "And the halftime show ain't bad either."

"Ladies and gentlemen, aren't they something! Give it up one more time for your Luvabulls!" a silver-haired announcer standing courtside enthused into a microphone, and the mostly male audience cheered and whistled. Ray slapped his free hand on the armrest to show his appreciation. Fraser clapped politely, glad that the thumping bass and screaming electric guitars had been silenced.

"And now," the announcer continued, "it's time for the last night of our special Orange Ox promotion, Take the Shot! For the first-timers out there, here's how it works. We pull a seat number at random at the half and put it in this sealed envelope." He plucked an orange envelope from the inside of his suit jacket and held it up for everyone to see. "The person sitting in that seat comes down here and stands on the Orange Ox Oval." He gestured to two young men dressed in Orange Ox shirts who were putting down a vinyl oval at the center line.

Fraser leaned in, rolled up the sleeves of his fisherman's sweater, and gave a low whistle. "Not an easy shot."

Ray considered it for a moment as he chewed. " _I_ could make that shot."

"You'll have thirty seconds to compose yourself and shoot. If you make it, Miss Orange Ox," and the announcer indicated a buxom young woman in a sparkly orange outfit, "will give the Orange Prize Drum a few good turns and pull out a chip to let you know what you've won." The woman smiled, waved at the crowd, and turned the handle on a wire basket to demonstrate. Hundreds of orange-and-gold chips flipped and tumbled, catching the light and making a soft sliding noise. The announcer stood looking at her a bit longer than strictly necessary before turning back to the crowd.

"You could win anything from a free four-pack of Orange Ox Energy Drink, to a trip to Pamplona, Spain, for their famous Running of the Bulls, to...ONE MILLION DOLLARS!"

A cheer rose from the crowd at that.

"ARE YOU READY?!"

Another huge cheer from the crowd.

"Everyone get out your ticket stubs! Here we GOOOOO!!"

Twenty thousand people collectively held their breath as the announcer tore open the envelope and removed the slip within.

"Okay, we're looking for the fan in Section 122..."

"Come on...." Ray breathed.

"...Row F..."

"Our row!" exclaimed Ray, grabbing Fraser's shoulder.

"...seat number...38!!"

Ray's right hand convulsed around the remainder of his hot dog, shooting it right out of the bun, but he didn't even seem to notice. "Fraser, that's you! Oh my God! It's you!" With his left hand, he grabbed Fraser's arm and held it up, and a spotlight forced Fraser to put his other hand in front of his eyes.

"It looks like we have a winner!" the announcer called. "And one who might just make that shot, by the look of it!"

"Go get 'em, Benny! Show 'em how it's done!" Ray was as excited as if he'd won himself.

Cries of "Good luck!" erupted from everyone around him, and as Fraser extricated himself from his seat, he graciously acknowledged the well-wishes of the crowd with a polite smile. The spotlight followed him all the way down to the court, where one of the young men directed him to stand on the exact center of the vinyl oval they'd put down. The announcer ambled over, inspected the proffered ticket stub, and spoke once more into the mike.

"This is our winner, ladies and gentlemen! Congratulations, and welcome to Take the Shot! What's your name?"

"Benton Fraser."

The crowd cheered. A woman yelled out, "You can slam-dunk me anytime, honey!"

"You play much basketball, Benton?" the announcer asked, ignoring the outburst.

"Some," Fraser allowed, turning to point Ray out in the stands with a smile. "My friend Ray and I play once or twice a week." The spotlight moved to Ray in the stands.

Ray, basking in the attention, flashed a thousand-watt smile and waved at the crowd.

"Well, you'll have to find a way to thank him if you make this shot!" chuckled the announcer. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Your thirty seconds start when this young man," he indicated one of the assistants, "hands you the ball."

Fraser nodded.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I ask that you remain quiet until the ball has left Benton's hands. And...here we go!"

Fraser accepted the ball, and the big ":30" on the shot clock started counting down. He furrowed his brow and took a good, long look at the basket, apparently in no hurry at all.

The clock hit :20 and kept ticking. The crowd began to murmur, but the announcer held up a cautioning hand, and they once again fell quiet. Fraser licked a finger and held it up in the air, turned first to the left, then to the right, and finally nodded in satisfaction.

The clock hit :10. Nine, eight, seven, six...Fraser finally pursed his lips, dribbled three times, and then lofted the ball across the court in one smooth motion.

It looked good. Really good.

The ball hit the rim and bounced.

A gasp went up from the crowd.

The ball bounced once more...and went in the basket.

Even fifty feet away, Ray's exuberant "YEEAAHHH!" was easy to pick out of the many cheering, whooping, hollering voices.

The announcer joined in the applause before beckoning Fraser to stand by the wire basket. Miss Orange Ox swooped in and gave him a kiss that left both a smudge of orange lipstick and a scarlet blush on his cheek.

"Well done, Benton! Now let's find out what you've won. Miss Orange Ox will make sure that the chips are well shuffled..." She turned the crank with great enthusiasm. "Now, Benton, reach in and pull out a chip, and hand it to me, if you will."

Fraser did so, acutely conscious of Miss Orange Ox's hand on his back. Rather low on his back, actually...

The announcer propped the microphone under his arm while he opened the chip as if prying open a clam. He peered at something written on the inside of the chip, then hurriedly brought the mic back up to his lips.

"Unbelievable! Ladies and gentlemen, for taking the shot--and making the shot--Benton Fraser has just won our grand prize, ONE! MILLION! DOLLARS! One million dollars, folks!!"

The arena erupted, but Benton Fraser, Chicago's newest millionaire, just stood still as death, as if Miss Orange Ox's hand had turned him to stone.

***

"And we'll need your signature here, here, here...here...oh, and here," the man across the table intoned, a whiff of oh-so-refined cologne escaping from his suit jacket as he stretched his arm to point out the spots on the forms spread across Fraser and Ray's half of the table.

"I still can't believe it," Ray exulted, grinning over at Fraser. "Can you believe it? I'm sittin' next to a millionaire!"

Fraser, his eyes skimming column upon column of fine print, gave no response. At length, he slowly scrawled his signature in each of the lawyer-indicated places, pushed the pile back across the table, and rubbed his forehead wearily.

The lawyer gathered the papers back together, rapped the stack on the table to straighten it, and nodded. "That'll do for tonight. I imagine you'll want to go out and celebrate. Again, congratulations from all of us at Orange Ox, and we'll be in touch soon to finalize the arrangements. Security will come here to get you once they're sure the arena is clear." He locked the papers up in a gleaming leather briefcase that probably cost more than Ray's car, shook Fraser's hand, and left.

Ray's slightly irritated glance moved from the door back to Fraser, searching his friend's face for signs of...joy, happiness, even a slightly upturned lip—this was Fraser, after all—and came up empty. "Benny, what's wrong with you? You just won a million bucks, and you look like your best friend died."

Fraser glanced up from the table. "I'm just...tired. I guess it hasn't really sunk in yet."

"Well, try picturing this: I drive us to Narcisse, we drink the most expensive bottle of champagne in the city, we hire one of those giant white stretch limos twice the size of your apartment, and we go wherever we want until the sun comes up. Kings of Chicago. How's that sound?"

Fraser snorted. "Appalling. I think I'd just like to go home. I have to be at the Consulate early tomorrow morning."

Ray's eyebrows shot up. "Are you kidding me? You're a millionaire, for God's sake, and you're not even going to take a day off work? If it were me? I'd've already quit my job."

"You don't mean that, Ray."

"Yes I do! Money is freedom, Benny--freedom to do what you want, go where you want, live in a giant house with a snooty butler, and tell the rest of the world to jump in a lake. You have no idea how much I envy you right now."

"Duly noted. So I am now free to do what I want, i.e., keep the peace, and go where I want, such as the occasional basketball game." Fraser finally smiled. "But you were right, Ray. This was definitely better than watching it on TV."

Ray threw back his head and laughed. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

The door opened to admit a bored-looking security officer. "Okay, we're clear. I'm gonna walk you out to your car."

Still chuckling, the men put their coats and gloves on and followed the guard down the corridor. A TV mounted near the ceiling in the hallway caught their attention. The late news was showing highlights of the game while a pudgy sportscaster inserted various exhortations straight out of a Batman episode. Fraser stopped and looked at the screen--and saw himself making the million-dollar shot, once, twice, a third time in slow motion.

"Oh, dear," he sighed, "it would seem all of Chicago is hearing about my good fortune." He paused and listened to the sportscaster finish an adjective-heavy report on his exploits before walking on.

Ray waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder at the TV. "So you're a ninety-second clip on the sports segment. Big deal. By tomorrow everyone'll be talking about Hollywood Harper's jammed finger." He turned to the guard. "Hey, who won, anyway?"

"Bulls all the way, man. A blowout. Oh, and just so you know," he offered as he opened an outside door for them, "there're a coupla news reporters here."

Fraser and Ray exchanged a look, and then they were engulfed in a sea of blinding lights.

***

"This really isn't necessary," Fraser protested as Ray circled the block yet again.

"Yes it is. See?" He pointed out the window at two figures in hooded sweatshirts. "They haven't moved since we came around the last time. They're waiting for you."

"If they're waiting for me, wouldn't the quickest way to resolve the matter be to just talk to them and find out why?"

"Like you need to ask why," Ray sighed wearily as he pulled the Riv into a not-entirely-legal spot just around the corner. He removed his gun from his ankle holster and slipped it into the pocket of his overcoat.

Fraser tipped his hat in greeting to the men standing near the door to his building. "Good evening, Jamal. Good evening...sorry, I don't believe we've met."

The second man unzipped his hoodie to reveal a shirt and tie underneath, stuck out a hand and smiled. "Enrique Smith, CPO of the Three Six Mafia."

Fraser shook it. "A pleasure to meet you, but I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the title."

Enrique's smile broadened. "Chief Protection Officer."

"Ah. How nice for you. This is my friend Ray Vecchio."

"CPD," Ray added. "I'm sure you're familiar with _that_ title."

Enrique held up a hand at Vecchio's tone. "Hey, I come in peace, man. Not even carrying a piece." He smiled at his own joke, then snapped his fingers at Jamal, who hurriedly unpacked two chairs-in-a-bag and set them up on the sidewalk. "Mr. Fraser," he indicated a chair, his expression grave, "please have a seat."

Fraser and Enrique sat, and Enrique began speaking in low, earnest tones. "We're here to help you. I understand you've pulled in some cash, but—well, you know, this is a high-crime area. For a very reasonable fee, my team and I can ensure your personal safety in the weeks and the months to come."

"What?" Ray sputtered. "He's a cop, he owns a wolf, and he can shoot a bee off the back of a--"

Fraser held up a gloved finger, and Ray subsided. "I see. An interesting offer. What might that reasonable fee be?"

Enrique snapped his fingers again, and Jamal withdrew a packet of papers and a flashlight from underneath his sweatshirt and handed them to Enrique, who smoothed the papers out before handing the top sheet and the flashlight to Fraser.

"Here's the quote. It's all broken down, so you can see where your money'd be goin', and exactly what's included."

"Itemized," Fraser nodded approvingly, his eyes tracking down the page, "and very professional." He handed the paper over to Ray, who frowned and moved a few steps to angle it under the streetlight.

"Now, I understand that you might want to think over your decision, not rush into anything," Enrique continued smoothly, "so let me also give you our brochure--"

Ray's head jerked up. "You have a _brochure_?"

"Of course," Enrique said, handing a glossy color four-panel to Fraser, "and here's my card." Fraser accepted both items with a carefully neutral expression. "Now, I don't do this for just anybody," added Enrique conspiratorially, lowering his voice even more, "but I wrote in my special cell number on the back. You can call me any time at that number, day or night."

"Thank you, Mr. Smith," Fraser said solemnly, rising from his chair and handing back the flashlight. "I appreciate your time."

"No problem," Enrique said, rising and shaking Fraser's hand again, "nice talking business wit' you." Another snap of his fingers, and Jamal wrestled the chairs back into their bags and threw one over each shoulder.

Enrique sauntered away, Jamal tripping along behind him like a pack mule, and called back over his shoulder just before he melted into the darkness, "'Night, fellas. I'd be careful if I was you."

Fraser and Ray stood side by side, staring down the sidewalk for a long moment, the papers still in their hands.

"Hmm," Fraser ventured.

"What?"

"It seems the United States really has become a service economy."

***  
Hours later, Fraser was still awake, tossing and turning in Ray's bed. It really hadn't been necessary, but Ray had worried for his safety and insisted that he lodge at the Vecchio home. Ray had also stubbornly taken up his post on the couch, the better to ward off any unwanted guests. As if he, Benton Fraser, RCMP, were incapable of taking care of himself! It was quite ridiculous, and embarrassing to boot.

Dief, curled up on the braided rug between the bed and the window, snored with abandon. The city noise had dwindled to a middle-of-the-night calm, and the light of the moon cast a faint silvery glow across the bed and onto the wall next to the door. Fraser took comfort in the rhythm of Dief's _snrrrfs_ and gurgles, with their own tidal ebb and flow, and let them lull him toward sleep.

There was the faintest of creaks from the hallway.

The doorknob turned, slowly, so slowly, and then the door inched open. Fraser held absolutely still while his mind sorted through his options. How had his attacker managed to get past Ray? Why hadn't he thought to put some sort of weapon within reach of the bed? He'd have to wait until the intruder was close enough to take down with a lateral kick-and-tackle.

Hmm. The intruder sounded like he was bare-footed.

"Benton?"

Oh, dear. Francesca! Worse than an intruder...and this time he couldn't plead injury.

He could, however, pretend to be asleep. It was a form of dishonesty, but one that, in his estimation, was eminently forgivable, given the fact that Ray would dismember them both if he found Francesca in the room with him.

"You awake?"

Fraser kept his breathing slow and even and remained still.

She crept still closer; her lavender perfume wafted into his nostrils as she knelt next to the bed.

"Funny," she whispered, "I'd figured you for a light sleeper."

There was a long pause. Fraser was sure he was being stared at and had to school himself not to blush.

"I just wanted to...I don't know...have a little talk with you about...things."

Another pause. _I am dead to the world_ , Fraser reminded himself.

"Good. I'm glad you agree. First off, I, um…I'm sorry about the way things turned out when I showed up at your place and…well, you know. I didn't know you'd been hurt."

Dief shifted. Finally, he had apparently noticed the lavender perfume and realized Fraser was not alone. Some watchdog he was!

"I also wanted to tell you that…I won't treat you different now that you're, y'know, um, rich and all. I mean," she added hurriedly, talking more and more quickly, "I won't be all in awe of you or anything—well, not any more than usual. But I'm not, you know, one of those women that goes after rich guys just to get their money. Not that money is bad or anything, not at all!"

Dief snored even louder than before, the sound taking on a positively theatrical quality. Fraser suspected Dief was also playing possum, perhaps afraid that he would be dragged off for an impromptu bath. Thank goodness the half-wolf couldn't hear the words pouring out of Francesca's mouth. Fraser envied him mightily just now.

"I mean, who says you can't be a Mountie _and_ a millionaire?" Francesca plowed on breathlessly. "But, um, if you were waiting to, y'know, settle down, start a family and all that until you had the, um, resources to do that, well, you don't have to wait any more. And you know that since I knew you…y'know, before you won all that money, well, I just want you to know that…you can trust me."

It took Fraser a moment to mentally navigate the labyrinth of "wells" and "you knows," but the last was hopeful and sincere. Fraser thought ruefully that trust was not really the issue—rather, it was a question of proportion, and the simple fact of the matter was that her affections were out of all proportion to his own. But to move or reply now would be a catastrophic blunder, and so he lay there as still as ever and hoped fervently that she would refrain from baring her soul any further, or, worse yet, baring something else.

She gave a satisfied sigh. "I feel so much better, don't you? I'm glad we could have this little talk."

She got to her feet—there was a slight rustle of fabric as her nightgown fell back into place—and breathed, "Sleep well, Benton," before leaving as quietly as she'd come. Fraser rejoiced inwardly at the sound of the door snicking shut.

Free at last, he stretched, stiff from having to hold so still, and turned to face Dief's innocent-looking gaze. In an astounding coincidence, his snoring had ceased at the precise moment of Francesca's departure.

"Don't think I didn't notice that."

Dief gave a soft whine followed by an amused _whuff_.

"Melt a glacier?" Fraser clapped his hands on his burning cheeks. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Melt a glacier is right," said his father, suddenly standing just inside the door. "What's got you so hot and bothered?"

"I'm not hot," protested Fraser, "just bothered. Francesca Vecchio…"

His father nodded in understanding. "Say no more, son. She's certainly made her intentions clear, hasn't she?"

"All too clear," lamented Fraser.

"Of course, on the other hand, you shouldn't be too hard on the poor girl…'A' for effort, and all that…"

"Dad, do you mind? Did you come here to tell me to throw myself at her? What is it, exactly, that makes you appear, anyway? Is there a trigger word? Tell me what it is and I swear I will never utter it again."

"There's no call to be so stroppy," his father grumbled. "I only come because I care. I come back from the dead for you, and this is the thanks I get?"

Fraser rolled his eyes and huffed in exasperation. "Unlike you, I do need to sleep at night, so if you could just get on with—whatever it is you're here to say, I would greatly appreciate it."

"All right then," his father agreed. He took a breath, opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, rubbed one hand along his jawline. "Now, let's see…"

"Dad!"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute, you got me off track with your whole…" He waved a hand indistinctly. "…stroppy attitude. My concentration's not what it used to be. Oh!" He snapped his fingers. "The money. I wanted to talk to you about the money."

Fraser threw his head back onto the pillow. "You too? You know, the books in Grandmother and Grandfather's library were full of well-to-do villains who were twisted, lonely people, starved for companionship. Fiction in every way—I seem to be the most popular man in Chicago."

His father's head cocked at the word choice. "Popular? Don't fool yourself, son."

"I was being sarcastic. Look, I have this well in hand. The money's not going to change anything, not for me, and not for anyone else. I'll just, ah, put it in my and Diefenbaker's retirement accounts," he shrugged.

"Ha! The innocence of youth--or at least early middle age. Don't you see, son? You'll go soft, you'll get comfortable, and you'll get so used to the good life you won't be able to make it any more in the Territories. You'll be stuck here forever."

"Nonsense," Fraser shot back, but he had worried about this very eventuality as he slipped between the soft sheets and settled back onto Ray's comfortable mattress. He was unnerved by how much he liked it.

"Of course," his father went on as if he hadn't heard, "that's if you don't get killed first. Money makes you a target. Might as well just paint a bulls-eye on your tunic."

"Dad, have you listened to a single word I've said? The people who know me choose to associate with me because of who I am, not what I have. No one is going to treat me any differently because of some silly advertising promotion."

But his father was already shaking his head. "They already are, son. What do you call that midnight visit from the Yank's sister?"

Fraser, his mouth open to counter, deflated, pressed his lips together, and looked away.

"'Gold conjures up a mist about a man," his father quoted, "more destructive of all his old senses and lulling to his feelings than the fumes of charcoal.' Charles--"

"--Dickens, yes, I know. Do you have to be quite so melodramatic?"

"First they'll see you differently, look at you a little funny. Maybe an awkward pause in the conversation when you come in the room. Then they won't see you at all any more, just like no one can see me."

"And what lucky people _they_ are," Fraser muttered sourly.

"After that, they'll only see your money, son. They'll only see your money."

"No," Fraser shot back, "you're wrong. Death seems to have made you lose whatever nodding acquaintance you still had with reality. Most people are decent and honest, given half a chance. Certainly everyone I know well falls into that category."

His father shook his head ruefully and looked down at the floor. "Not hardly. Think again. What got me killed? Two things: money, and putting someone in the 'decent and honest' category who didn't belong there." His head came back up, and he met Fraser's eyes. "You better look sharp and step lively, or you could meet the same fate."

They stared at each other for a long moment, worried faded eyes meeting defiant stubborn ones, and then Fraser gave a tiny nod. "Understood. But you're still wrong."

"I hope so, son," his father said, still chillingly serious, "I hope so."

***

The morning drive to the Consulate started in blissful, comfortable silence, but then Ray kept firing worried glances over at Fraser, compounded his mistake further by talking, and things quickly deteriorated from there.

"'Overslept', huh?" Ray said with another sidelong glance at Fraser. "I think you couldn't stand the thought of having to eat breakfast with my sister. Not that I blame you. Although you do look like hell."

"Thank you, Ray," Fraser replied, failing to keep an undercurrent of irritation out of his voice. "I slept remarkably poorly last night."

"Yeah, I guess all the excitement of how you're going to spend your million bucks kept you awake," Ray fired back. "Poor Fraser. Your every wish can be fulfilled, and you complain about missing your usual seven o'clock bedtime."

"My every wish? My every _wish_?" Fraser said, stung. "You know, maybe I wish they'd called your seat instead of mine."

"Oh, _here_ we go. If I'd known you were going to pull this overbearing, holier-than-thou martyr act, I would've switched seats with you! Geez, do the Mounties make you swear an oath of poverty or something? I mean, we've already got obedience and chastity covered—"

" _Ray_!" Fraser, the tips of his earlobes fiery red, was equal parts angry and scandalized. "What is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me? I'll tell you what's wrong with me!" He pulled up to the curb in front of the Consulate and slammed the shifter into neutral. "My best friend finally catches a break and he can't enjoy one second of it before he starts complaining and moaning and wringing his hands about how awful it is! God, Benny, can't you just be happy about something for once? How hard is that?"

A long, leaden silence descended on the Riv, broken only by Ray's breathing. Ray glared at Fraser, while Fraser, arms crossed, silent and tense as a bowstring, stared intently at the floorboard.

Ray finally expelled a gusty sigh and looked away. "Y'know, wait, I'm sorry. Forget I said that."

Fraser finally blinked, finally moved, but he merely opened the car door and climbed out, avoiding Ray's eyes. "Dief," he addressed the back seat. "Dief, wake up."

Dief gave an enormous yawn, stretched, and moaned a complaint before jumping out of the car.

"Fraser, come on, I didn't mean it."

Fraser merely heaved the door shut and strode up the walk to the Consulate.

Dief made a plaintive appeal to Fraser.

"For the last time, no," he snapped. "Absolutely not. I am not buying you your own donut shop."

Dief made a rude noise.

"I am _not_ a cheapskate," he said to the wolf as they headed inside.

***

"Constable!" Inspector Moffat called, clearly in "public voice" mode. "Could you please report to the conference room?"

Fraser blinked; the conference room was no more than four strides from where he was hanging up his blue peacoat in the ornate mahogany wardrobe in the hallway. "Right away, sir."

Moffat stood up at the head of the table as Fraser entered and beckoned him closer. Fraser blinked again in surprise at the group of people flanking the Inspector. There was a man with a camera who immediately started snapping pictures, causing Fraser to raise a hand against the flash, a young woman in an orange jacket directing the photographer, and a woman in a dark suit and heels who looked pinched and annoyed, like her shoes were two sizes too small.

"Yes, sir?"

"Constable...Fraser," Moffat greeted him officiously with a glance at his watch, "although you may have just blundered into more money in one night than I take home in a decade, unless and until you submit your resignation, I expect you to continue reporting for duty on time. You are four minutes late."

"I apologize, sir. You're quite right; there's no excuse for tardiness."

"Oh my God, is he for real?" Orange Jacket Woman stage-whispered to the photographer as she stared at Fraser, trying and failing to suppress a giggle.

Moffat gave the woman a sharp glance. "He's all yours for now, but see that you're done with him by noon. There are plants to be dusted and invitations to decline." He turned on his heel and left.

Orange Jacket Woman, completely unfazed by Moffat's rebuke, came around the table and shook Fraser's free hand. "Benton, so glad you're here! Stop blocking the flash, sweetie, we're not here to waste film. I'm Samantha--everybody calls me Sam--with Orange Ox Promotions, and this is my half-wit photographer Steve." Steve seemed to take no offense, giving a quick wave before he continued snapping away.

"Here, Steve," Sam said, taking a can of Orange Ox from her pocket and pressing it into Fraser's hands, "get a full-length, now a close-up from the shoulders up--" She turned to Fraser. "Here, hold the can next to your face--no, not like that, _cradle_ it! Closer, like it's your first-born just home from the hospital. Smile!"

The fourth document he'd signed last night said that he gave his permission for Orange Ox to use his likeness for promotional purposes, but he hadn't reckoned with the flashbulb-popping, ceaselessly-chattering onslaught of Sam and Steve. He took a step back, then another and another, until he was against the wall and could retreat no further.

"Hmm," Sam said, her eyes never leaving his face, "the close-lipped smile is okay, but I'm not really feeling it. Wait, wait, let's try a nice sly grin, show some teeth, and point to the can, y'know, all knowing, like, 'Whoa, I totally couldn't have done it without chugging an Orange Ox first!' Show me that emotion, Benton! C'mon, work it!"

The pinched-looking woman in the dark suit minced toward Fraser, only to be stopped by Sam's upraised hand. "Look, Agent Milford, we got first dibs. We need him fresh and starched and sparkly. Why don't you go get some coffee? We're gonna be a while." She turned and looked thoughtfully at the conference table. "Oooh, oooh, Steve," she said excitedly, "let's lay him out longways on the table and prop his head up on his elbow, y'know, like a GQ kinda thing. Rrowwr!"

Agent Milford was not amused. "No, _you_ look. I have to be in Oak Park in an hour. I need to inform him of his rights and duties under US tax law, get some signatures, and be on my way."

"Oh, all right," Sam relented. "You can talk while we shoot. But stay out of frame, and don't say anything that'll make him frown. It puts little lines in his forehead."

***

Fraser had never been so glad to suck the chilly, grimy city air into his lungs as he walked to the police station; he felt only mild guilt over leaving his post an hour early. He had been unable to get much done, what with Steve and Sam practically blinding and deafening him, respectively, and he had fielded calls from dozens of women who desired all manner of liaisons with him, which they were only too happy to describe in lurid detail. He felt his cheeks warm at the memory.

"Hey, baby," a shockingly young woman in attire that left very little to the imagination purred, sidling up to him on rickety four-inch heels, "you lookin' for a little fun?"

Fraser stopped and turned to face her. Despite the heels, she had to look up; he was a good twenty centimeters taller. Under the copious eye shadow and mascara, her gaze was hollowed out, both empty and much too full. She met his eyes, gasped in shock, and would have toppled over backwards if Fraser had not quickly reached out and steadied her.

"You're that guy! Oh my God, you're the millionaire basketball guy! You got all that money for one shot. One lucky shot. Can't you spare one tiny little piece of all that money for me? C'mon, Richie Rich, you got a twenty?" She held out her hand, the cold making her shiver.

"Well, Miss, I would gladly help you if I could, but I'm afraid I haven't actually received any of the money yet—"

Her outstretched hand clenched into a fist, and she punched him in the chest, once, twice, three times, and then her other hand came up and joined it. "Liar!" she shrieked. "You men're all the same! All a bunch of liars! Lying pigs!"

Fraser half-heartedly held up his hands to ward off her punches, to no avail. She continued hitting and yelling.

"All you do is lie and cheat and promise the world and don't deliver none of it! A million bucks and you can't give me twenty!"

Passersby were beginning to stare. The girl noticed and tried a new tack. "This man right here, he just stiffed me!" she yelled to anyone within earshot. "He was usin' my services and now he ain't payin'!"

"It's not true," Fraser replied calmly, but loud enough for everyone to hear. "She is merely attempting to extort money from me." Lowering his voice, he murmured to the girl, "I'm sure you're aware that soliciting is illegal in this jurisdiction, Miss—what did you say your name was?"

The girl's arms dropped to her sides, her breathing loud from her exertions, and her face paled. "No, no way! You a cop? Jesus! Oh, God, why me? Look, I ain't no hook—"

"Of course not," Fraser agreed smoothly, unbuttoning and removing his peacoat. "I really don't have any money, I'm afraid."

"Whaddya doing?" the girl said, eyes wide, backing away. "Don't you get all freaky wit' me, mister!" She looked like she was about to turn and run, but Fraser moved toward her so calmly that she merely looked back and forth from him to the peacoat in his hands.

"Miss, you'll catch a terrible chill in this weather," he said gently, extending the coat to her with both hands. "Please."

She blinked, hesitated, blinked again, anger, confusion, and disbelief all flitting across her face before she finally hugged the coat to her chest.

Fraser nodded crisply, tipped his hat, and walked on, leaving the woman to stare after him.

"Well," his father said, appearing beside him, "You just gave away RCMP property, but I suppose it could be considered professional courtesy, since you two are in the same line of work now..."

Fraser gave him a sharp look. "What are you blithering on about?"

"You know exactly what I mean. How did it feel, prostituting yourself for an energy drink?"

"I had to honor the agreements I signed," Fraser said flatly, "regardless of my personal feelings in the matter."

"Sure, you keep telling yourself that, son."

Fraser's only response was to lengthen his stride and walk even faster until he could escape into the precinct.

The bullpen was in its usual state: teetering on the edge of complete chaos, but somehow managing not to cross the line. The hubbub was strangely comforting, and Fraser found himself smiling as he headed for Ray's desk.

"Hey, Fraser, congratulations!" Louis Gardino said, falling in next to him and throwing a conspiratorial arm around his shoulder. Fraser glanced at the arm before turning to its owner.

"Thank you," Fraser said, still walking.

"Boy, I tell ya, that was one amazing shot, really something. Really, really something."

"Thank you," Fraser said again. "Is there--is there something I can do for you, Louis?"

Louis stopped and turned to face him, his voice low and earnest. "I'm glad you asked me that, Fraser. There's something I'd like to show you." He removed something small from the inside of his blazer and handed it to Fraser.

"It's a lovely...fountain pen," Fraser said, his brow furrowing.

"No, Fraser, it's so much more than that. Here, let me show you." He took the pen back and twisted the cap.

"' _It's er rurvey...funbun ben,_ '" came the pen's tinny, foggy rendition of Fraser's voice. "It's also a recorder! It'll pick up anything within ten feet. Imagine what this could do for sting operations and undercover work! My own invention. I could make a mint--but the startup costs are killing me. I need an investor, someone who believes in this as much as I do. It's a match made in heaven--you got money, I need money. What do you say?"

"Ah, well, it's kind of you to think of me, but this is a bit premature. I don't actually have any of the money yet, I'm afraid."

"Oh," said Louis. "Well, then, uh, until then, could you just keep this--"

"Under my hat?"

"Yeah, good one," Louis chuckled weakly, moving off with a vague air of disappointment.

Fraser had to collect himself for a moment before he continued on. Ray was bent over his desk, deeply engrossed in something. Fraser stepped closer, removed his hat, and took a deep breath.

"Ray," he said, "I wish to apologize for my conduct this morning. You were right; I was insufficiently pleased by what most people would call an incredible stroke of good luck. I hereby resolve to be happy about it, and to show said happiness as publicly as possible."

Ray looked up, and Fraser saw that he had been scratching off lottery tickets. "Well, good, 'cause I just wasted another ten bucks trying to win a million for myself."

Elaine walked up with a fat file folder in her hand. "Ah, Fraser, I hate to do this to you, but this just came in for you..." She dropped the file folder on Ray's desk with a clunk and hurried away.

"Lemme guess," Ray said as Fraser reached over to examine the contents, "her hundred-page Christmas list?"

"No," Fraser said, reading, "it would seem to be a sexual harassment suit against me filed by a Mrs. Ernestine Pinckney."

Ray's brow furrowed and he leaned over to read the file upside down. "A sexual harassment suit? You gotta be kidding me. Who the heck is she?"

"Mrs. Pinckney is ninety-four years old; on Tuesday last, I helped her across a busy intersection. In her complaint, she says that I, and I quote, 'made lewd remarks, employed obscene gestures, and committed acts of moral turpitude.'"

"Acts of moral _turpitude_? Why would she even--oh, I get it, she's after your money, just like everybody else. What a surprise."

"The suit seeks one million dollars in damages, coincidentally enough," Fraser said with a sigh. He closed the folder, rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I just--I just don't know what to do with any of this."

"I do," said Ray with a smile, taking the folder and tossing it into his wastebasket. "Get your coat." He donned his own and strode toward the door, jingling his keys in his pocket.

"Ah, Ray," said Fraser, getting up to follow, "about my coat..."

***

"Welcome to Bleu, gentlemen. Is this table too close to the string quartet for your liking?" the waiter asked in a silky-smooth tenor, his hand flicking up to straighten his already perfectly straight bow tie.

"No," Ray said with a smile, "this is just fine, thank you."

"Very good, monsieur." The waiter nodded and pulled out first Ray's, then Fraser's chairs to seat them. A second tuxedoed man whisked up, smoothly poured two glasses of ice water, and receded as quietly as he had come.

Fraser fiddled nervously with his tie, nearly dunking a cufflink into his water glass in the process. "Ray," he said uneasily, "there aren't any prices on this menu. And," he dropped his voice even lower, "I don't actually have any money yet."

Ray grinned. "You'll pay me back, right?"

"Of course, Ray."

Ray looked around at the string quartet, the cut crystal glasses on the table, and the new suit Fraser was wearing, and sighed contentedly. "So, you like seeing how the other half lives?"

"Oh, certainly. And I don't think I've ever purchased such a fine suit before. We always just sort of made do back home. Your tailor did a remarkable job." Fraser fingered the dark gray weave admiringly. "I admit I'm not certain when I'll have occasion to wear it again, but it is novel to blend in for a change."

"Hey, it's Armani. A classic. It'll never go out of style. I bet you get plenty of wear out of it. Just think of it as Canadian camouflage."

Fraser smiled at that. "So I shall."

"It sure worked on that real estate agent. I thought she was going to hand over the keys right then and there at the open house. You could probably get it for half the list price."

"It was a very spacious condominium, and the view would have been excellent for monitoring possible criminal activity in the area, but it was entirely unsuitable for Dief. Egress from the penthouse without a fire escape is rather inconvenient, and the elevator buttons were much too high for him to operate comfortably. Not to mention that it's a much longer walk to both the Consulate and the station than my current residence."

"'Residence?' You call that dilapidated dump you live in a residence?"

Fraser shrugged. "It's a perfectly serviceable roof over my head, far more luxurious than any lean-to or cabin I ever used out on patrol."

"Benny, only you would turn your nose up at a $750,000 condo because the elevators aren't wolf-friendly." He looked up to see the waiter hovering at his left elbow with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

"Excuse me, monsieurs, but the lady over there told me to tell you congratulations," he said, indicating an attractive brunette in a black dress sitting alone by the window. He poured the champagne, and Ray and Fraser tasted it.

"It's very good," Ray said.

"It should be," the waiter replied. "Six hundred dollars a bottle."

Fraser choked on his drink.

After taking their dinner orders, the waiter hurried away.

"Don't look now, but here comes trouble," Ray murmured as the woman rose from her place and walked toward them. Her long hair was swept up to let the light play off her diamond earrings, but she was dressed like a lawyer or an accountant, not a hooker. Well, maybe a really high-rent hooker…

"Hello," the woman said, clearly not the least bit nervous or shy. "I'm Catherine Lewellyn, CPA, CFP." She laid a business card on the table and smiled at Fraser. "Would it be inappropriate to say you look like a million bucks?"

Ray and Fraser traded a look, and Ray placed his wallet next to her card on the table, badge up.

"Would it be inappropriate to say you better leave him alone before I give you an up-close-and-personal look at police brutality? Oh, and you can keep your fancy hooch. He doesn't drink."

Catherine raised her hands in appeasement. "All right, it was a very B-movie thing to do, but I wanted to get your attention. Mr. Fraser, you're a rich man now, and there are ways to invest that money that could make you an even richer man. Imagine being able to do whatever you want, whenever you want. You could live the life you've always dreamed of. I could make that happen for you. Think about it." She tapped her card with a manicured fingernail before turning and walking out of the restaurant.

Fraser picked up the card and looked at it without really seeing it. "I could live the life I've always dreamed of," he said slowly.

"Well, yeah. That kinda goes with the whole being-rich thing."

There was a long silence as Fraser turned the card over in his hands. "Fine, then I don't want to be rich," he finally blurted out, "and I'm not being petulant," he added quickly as Ray opened his mouth to protest. "Live the life I've always dreamed of? This _is_ the life I've always dreamed of—well, most of it, anyway. My work is meaningful, it's worthwhile. I can't imagine doing anything else. Canada may not think much of me at the moment, but I have at least two loyal friends in you and Dief…well, Dief's loyalties are with me more often than not. I'm able-bodied, I have a roof over my head, food on my table—what else could I possibly want? I don't need a million dollars. I already am rich."

"Fraser, don't you get it? Money gives you options, it sets you free."

But Fraser was already shaking his head. "No, Ray. You keep saying that, but money is a prison. It started the moment I won. Did you notice we didn't even get to see the second half of the game?"

"The hall TV showed the highlights," Ray countered weakly, but he didn't meet Fraser's eyes.

"Millionaires hole themselves up in mansions behind security gates, hire bodyguards to keep their children from being kidnapped. They can never be sure if people care for them, or only for their money. I can't live like that."

"So don't! Nobody's putting a gun to your head and making you buy a mansion. And you don't have any kids."

"Since I won this accursed money, I have been threatened by gangsters, assaulted by a marketing machine that would make Genghis Khan quiver in his boots, propositioned by no fewer than forty-six women, asked to invest in a shoddy invention, targeted by a gratuitous sexual harassment suit while trying to do my job, and lectured about how important it is to turn my money into even more money. Does that sound like freedom to you?"

"Maybe not," Ray conceded.

"And worst of all, I think my father was right. It's changing the way people see me. I'm the same person I've always been, but it seems what I have is more important than who I am." He sighed. "If I had it to do over again, I'd've deliberately missed that shot."

"Oh, woe is you," groused Ray, rolling his eyes, but fortunately, the food arrived at that moment, and both men dug in with gusto.

After a while, Fraser ventured, "This is good, but I think your mother's food is even better."

Ray ate another bite or two, considering, and finally nodded. "Nobody cooks like my ma," he agreed with a smile.

"Maybe there's some loophole in those papers I signed. Maybe I can renounce the prize or something, give it back."

Ray laughed at that. "Benny, sometimes you are the dumbest smart man I ever met."

Fraser just looked hurt.

"Look, try and follow me here. If the money is some kind of horrible burden for you…and you already are rich, at least according to your weird Mountie logic…and you can't enjoy or appreciate the money, then the obvious solution is to…?"

"Change my name? Wear a disguise?" Fraser leaned forward, blank and expectant.

Ray made a strangled noise of exasperation. "Think what you could do for _other_ people's lives with a million dollars!"

Now Fraser's face lit up. "Yes! I can give it away! I can just write a check for a million dollars to, I don't know, the Chicago Food Pantry, and that'll be that. Thank God. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Whoa, hold on there, where's the fire? I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but do you really just want to toss it away like that? This whole time you've been playing defense. Grab the bull by the horns! If you don't want the money for yourself, at least call the shots on where it goes. You could, I dunno, open a wolf sanctuary, start a "buy hay for Canadian moose" program, do-good your little heart out."

"Yes," Fraser said with palpable relief, "this could work. A form of monetary jujitsu, if you will. Something good can come out of this after all."

"Yeah, you see? All you need is a catchy name and a logo for your charity, you make some nice color brochures to hand out--"

"Brochures," Fraser exclaimed, as if he'd just discovered sliced bread, "of course! Ray, you've given me the most wonderful notion…"

***

There had to be a hundred people crammed into Bleu's small dining room. The crowd was overwhelmingly female, all decked out in shimmering gowns and strappy heels, dripping with pearls and diamonds, and perfumed in Vera Wang, Escada, Guerlain, and their noble cousins. The few men in the crowd, like Huey and Gardino, stuck out like a Mountie on an iceberg.

"I can't believe we scored an invite to this!" said Gardino triumphantly. "Look at all the gorgeous girls here. Thank you Fraser!"

"I don't know why I let myself be seen with you in that God-awful tuxedo," Huey said. "And why are we here, exactly? No one seems to know. The food's good, but no wine, no cocktails? What are we, Mormons?"

"Guys!" Frannie waved and minced over to them in heels so high she looked like she was on stilts. Huey quickly put a hand beneath her elbow to steady her. She was in a body-hugging black dress adorned with white fringed pearls, and she wore matching pearl drop earrings and makeup that looked like it had been applied with a front loader.

"Hello, Frannie. You look, uh, very nice," Huey managed politely.

"Thanks, but I wasn't exactly going for nice…if you know what I mean. So where's the guest of honor? Where's Benton?"

"Haven't seen him," Gardino shrugged."I think it's more than a little weird that we've been invited to…" He pulled his invitation out of his pocket and read. " …'An evening with Chicago's newest millionaire, Benton Fraser' at five in the afternoon. What is up with that?"

"He doesn't want to miss his seven p.m. bedtime," Huey deadpanned, and Gardino chuckled.

Frannie made a face. "That is so juvenile. You should be grateful that he invited you here for the, uh, you know…the festivities."

"So," Gardino said, "you have absolutely no clue why we're here either."

***

Fraser stood at the podium set up in the Consulate's back garden, unconsciously rocking from foot to foot and somehow looking even more starched than usual in his dress reds, and tapped the mike. "Testing, one two, testing, one two."

Ray reached over and switched it off. "If you test that mike one more time I'm going to beat you over the head with it."

"Sorry, Ray. Proper preparation prevents poor performance…and I confess I'm a bit nervous. I wasn't expecting so much press attention." There were fifty chairs arranged in neat rows, five on each side with an aisle in the middle, and nearly all of the seats were occupied. Mackenzie King was right there in the front row, of course, and there were camera crews from half-a-dozen TV stations as well as print reporters from every local paper and a bunch of other Midwestern outlets to boot.

"Well, once I got the ball rolling, it seems like everybody wanted a piece of this story. And you gotta admit, it's one helluva story. After today, no one is ever going to hit you up for money again."

"One can hope. Are we about ready to start?"

"Almost," Ray said, striding out to the phalanx of TV cameras. Fraser could see him exchanging a few words with each crew before coming back to the podium. "OK, I'm going to call over to the restaurant and have them turn on the TV, and then it's showtime. Good luck, Benny."

***

"Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please?" a waiter called into the buzzing crowd.

The noise level dropped nary a decibel.

"I believe you'll want to hear this…I have a message for you from… BENTON FRASER."

The room fell silent almost instantly.

"Thank you. If you would just be seated, we're going to bring out the televisions and position them around the room so everyone has a good view…"

It looked like the end of a brutal game of Musical Chairs as patrons elbowed each other for seats. Huey, Gardino, and Frannie all managed to sit at the same table with three women they didn't know, but who were clearly ardent fans of Benton Fraser.

"How do you know Benton?" Frannie asked one, a dumpy-looking woman with small eyes and enormous round cheeks. She was clutching a magazine opened to a full-page Orange Ox spread; Fraser's face took up three-quarters of the ad.

"I, um…telephoned him at the Consulate the day after he won. I must have made quite an impression! I was hoping to get him to sign this," she said, touching the ad lovingly.

"Oh my God, I called him too!" squealed the woman next to her, a younger woman with long blonde curls and an impeccable French manicure. "He was _sooooo_ sweet. I can't wait to meet him!"

"I sent him a letter," the third woman volunteered. "I made the case for why he should marry me and sent along a few, um, visual aids."

All three women tittered at that. Frannie was too shocked to say anything. Huey had a hand cupped under his chin, probably to keep his jaw from hitting the floor. Gardino looked like he'd been hit over the head with a two-by-four.

"What about you?" the blonde woman asked Frannie. "How do you know Benton Fraser?"

"Well," she said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice, "I actually know him really well. He's my brother's partner."

All three of the women gasped.

"No, no, no," Frannie said irritably, "it's not what you're thinking, my brother's a _cop_. Benton comes over and eats dinner at our house, like, all the time. And the night he won? He spent that night at our place."

"Wow," the letter-writer breathed.

"And we had a heart-to-heart talk about the money, just him and me. It was so romantic, with the moon shining in the window, so quiet and peaceful…"

"Oh. My. God!" the blonde woman squealed.

"Are you serious?" said Huey. "The Mountie barely knows you exist—"

"--Ha ha ha, good one, Jack!" Frannie cut him off, stomping his foot with the heel of her shoe under the table. "Benton and I have a wonderful relationship, don't we?"

"Mmmm," Huey managed to press out. "Mmm-hmm!"

Gardino eyed Huey nervously. "Yeah, yeah, absolutely," he volunteered quickly, clearly eager to retain his ability to walk.

"I envy you so much," the autograph-seeker fawned, clutching her magazine to her chest. "You get to see him all the time. What is that _like_?"

Fortunately, Frannie was prevented from having to come up with an answer by the televisions, which clicked on to the five o'clock news. People leaned in to watch, eager to see what message Benton Fraser might have for them.

"This is Shelley Byron, reporting to you live from outside the Canadian Consulate. If you've seen any billboards on your commute lately, or read a newspaper or magazine, you've probably seen the face of RCMP Constable Benton Fraser on a brand-new ad campaign for Orange Ox energy drinks. The dashing Mountie became an overnight sensation after winning a million dollars from Orange Ox with a lucky halftime basket at a Bulls game. However, it has been reported that he's taking his million dollars…and donating them to a very good cause."

There was an audible gasp in the room. One woman near the back actually burst into tears and ran out of the restaurant.

"Constable Fraser is holding a press conference even as we speak to announce the details. Let's listen in."

The top half of the podium and Fraser's bright red uniform filled the screen, and the crowd gave a sigh that could only be described as dreamy.

"…a new and promising partnership between our two countries, and specifically between the cities of Chicago and Inuvik."

"Igloolik? Where's that?" the blonde woman whispered.

Fraser gestured to a map that had been placed on an easel beside him. "Inuvik is 4,000 kilometers northwest of Chicago, in the Northwest Territories of Canada, but it has something unique and amazing to offer the youth of Chicago."

"Man-eating polar bears?" quipped Gardino.

"The new program, called Midnight Sun Adventures, offers Chicago's at-risk and impoverished youth a chance to slip the bonds of poverty and violence, shake off the grime of asphalt and exhaust, and experience a four-week wilderness adventure amidst the breathtaking beauty and sobering challenges of the Northwest Territories. All expenses are paid, and participants will experience the thrills of camping, hiking, fishing, driving dogsleds, riding snowmobiles, and learning about nature, wildlife, and Arctic survival. It is an experience that can change lives, bring hope, and give our young men and women a new perspective on themselves and the world they live in. The people of Inuvik are working hard to prepare for the arrival of the first group, which already has six of its ten slots filled. Young people between 13 and 21 who are interested in the remaining four slots may pick up an application form at any Chicago Public Library branch or Chicago Police precinct."

"He's spending a million bucks to send poor kids to the Arctic to go camping?" said Huey in disbelief.

"Hey, Fraser, they can freeze their butts off perfectly well down here!" Gardino yelled at the TV screen.

"Sssssshhh!" said Frannie. Personally, she felt a little disappointed that he hadn't discussed this with her, but it was a very Fraser-ish thing to do when you got right down to it. Oh, well, easy come, easy go.

"I'd like to take a moment to introduce our first six Midnight Sun adventurers," Fraser continued, indicating a row of chairs to the immediate right of the podium. "If you would please stand, gentlemen."

The camera panned to show six teenagers in button-down shirts and ties, clearly suffering from severe stage fright.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Willie Hammond, Lennie DeSoto, Del Porter, Stephen Forrester, Jamal Taylor, and Enrique Smith." The media crowd clapped enthusiastically.

"No way!" said Gardino. "That's that kid who stole his own car," he said, pointing at Lennie, "and Del's dad robbed the bank on Christmas Eve dressed as Santa!"

"I thought we were never going to get all those Elvises out of the station," Huey said with a shake of his head.

Fraser let the applause die down before continuing. "Enrique Smith will be the Team Leader for this group, and I am also naming him Assistant Administrator for the program. Congratulations, Enrique, and may this be the beginning of a new and exciting life for you."

There was another round of applause, and Enrique looked like he was having a tough time keeping it together, blinking a lot and looking up at nothing in particular even as he smiled and made peace signs.

"Of course," Fraser intoned, "although my million dollars is a good start, it will not keep the program running in perpetuity, so in closing, I'd like to ask the good people of Chicago to consider making a donation to this worthy endeavor. You can donate to Midnight Sun Adventures at any Chicago Federal bank branch, the Canadian Consulate, or any Chicago police precinct. I also want to thank my supporters at Bleu—"

"Heeeeeeey!" the restaurant crowd yelled in delight.

"—and ask them to please give generously. Thank you, everyone."

"And there you have it: a wonderful act of kindness from a wonderful man!" exclaimed Shelley Byron, who looked like she was almost blinking back tears herself. "He won a million dollars and immediately gave it all to a charity, a charity that is obviously very near and dear to his heart. What a heartwarming story! I'm going to go inside the Consulate and make my own personal donation to Midnight Sun Adventures in just a few moments, and I urge our viewers to do the same. From the Canadian Consulate, Shelley Byron, Action 6 News."

The waiter came out and turned off the televisions. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are passing around crystal bowls to collect donations for Midnight Sun Adventures. Benton Fraser would be most grateful for any amount you can spare."

Everyone started talking at once.

"He's a hottie, I'd donate a kidney if he wanted me to—"

"—I wonder if they could use that Microsoft stock we don't want any more?"

"—Seriously, those eyes alone are worth a hundred bucks—"

The bowls quickly filled with crisp green bills, and one woman, then two, then twenty, threw in their diamond earrings and pearl necklaces until the bowls looked like a display case at Tiffany's.

***

"Well, you did it," said Fraser to Ray as he steered the Riv across town toward Fraser's apartment in the deepening twilight. "You've saved me from the horrors of involuntary wealth. I can't thank you enough."

"Don't thank me yet. Let's see if you can actually get in your building. That reporter sounded like a groupie."

When they pulled up to Fraser's building, there were two people standing in the doorway: Jamal and Enrique.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Fraser greeted them. "You did a fine job at the press conference today."

"Thanks," said Enrique. "We thought we'd come here and keep the riffraff outta your building. Free of charge. To show our gratitude."

"And?" said Ray.

"There ain't been any riffraff," said Jamal sadly. "Looks like your 15 minutes are up."

"Music to my ears," said Fraser, arching an eyebrow. "Thank goodness that's over with. Would you like to come up and have some dinner with Dief and Ray and me?"

Both Enrique and Jamal nodded eagerly, and the three of them bounced up the stairs chatting animatedly. Ray locked the Riv and followed, shaking his head in wonderment. Once again, Fraser had unleashed his lethal politeness and charisma to turn would-be enemies to friends without even mussing his hair.

There was only one real problem remaining: an insufferably cranky wolf. Dief was still pouting because Fraser hadn't bought him a donut shop.

THE END  



End file.
